ODIN'S AVIARY ~ a home for wayward thoughts & memories
As though worries about the environment and global strife were not enough, it appears that the science fiction writers were right once again. I refer you to this link, courtesy of
. Read it, if for nothing else, for your own safety and those of your loved ones:
I swear,
, I'm not completely ripping off your format.
I caught
last night and I must say: It was Taymor-tastic. Julie Taymor directed this much-anticipated movie, which uses songs from The Beatles' repertoire to narrate the emotional upheaval of a few fictional characters living through the 1960s in New York City (and a little of Ohio, New Jersey and Liverpool). I say much-anticipated, and I speak solely for myself. This movie has been on my radar for some time, filmed as it was predominantly in New York, and I'm a hugemongous fan of Taymor and The Beatles.
Most people know Taymor from her movie adaptation of
Andronicus
, or her work developing the popular Broadway adaptation of
(or, her upcoming collaboration with U2 and Sony to produce a
, about which I am [mostly] speechless [it's going to either be the coolest thing ever or forever ruin my impression of her artistry]). Those who still love shows that only live for a few weeks at a time, however, know her from farther back as a director who merges to magnificent effect all kinds of cultural expressions, particularly puppetry.
Across the Universe
is likely the most mainstream, Hollywood-happy film Taymor has yet made, though it's hard for me to say because I have still not seen her
. Yet she still manages to incorporate more-theatrical elements at times, such as huge puppets, mask work and "penny arcade" sequences (as she refers to the animated montages in the
Titus
commentary).
I have to agree with the
that laments the unspectacular story and theatrical unity of the whole thing. I expected more from Taymor. However, I believe this review neglects the intentions of the piece as well, which is the poison pill of any critic that swiftly renders his or her critical virility utterly inert. As I understand it, Taymor aspired to create a story based solely on The Beatles's music and lyrics and the cultural goings-on of the period in which they were created--preferably a story with resonance to a contemporary audience. In this aim, I believe she succeeded, whether or not I appreciated the end of the film. (I didn't. There needs to be a separate 'blog entry for my feelings about double conclusions in films of late.) And ultimately I don't believe the film should be judged on its merit as an outstanding or well-constructed musical, because I don't believe it was aiming for that specific genre. Nor should it be judged on how profound a statement it made. The Beatles, after all is said and done, were pop musicians. On that basis, I find the movie a success because I enjoyed it.
Puppets and pop music are figuring into my creative life a lot lately. Or, rather I should say, figuring into my
fantasy
creative life lately, because it's all in my head, nothing done got creatited yet. Heather and I continue to express mutual enthusiasm for creating a
act betwixt us (a plan put somewhat on hold during performances of
on account of my breaking her toe with a chair), and I just keep thinking more and more about the kind of theatre I want to make for myself, which invariably incorporates popular music. Part of the satisfaction for me of the "homework assignments" during the development of
was the awareness that it meant I got to use one of the many pop (or indie) songs that had been scratching my itch of late.
So how does one begin to find one's creative voice, one's unique expression, in all of this? How do you encompass all the vast and profound experiences of thirty years into a moiety of melodrama? I've no idea. But I do believe I'm gathering material for my nest as we speak. The female creative influences of my life share some qualities in common that I seek to emulate, or at least steal with great admiration. A certain approach to creation as perception, a sort of found-object art, only with people and behavior rather than only objects. A release in the surreal, in the way interpretation of something common can make us notice it anew. Compassion, garnished with perspective. And meanwhile the many men of my motley career continue to offer their common, yet still sustaining, examples to follow: the value of discipline and having something to prove, the energy inherent in competition, the unique forge of approaching some things on one's own.
And why now? Why am I becoming, slowly, so hell-bent on directing something, or at least creating something to call my own? Is it the same urge that drove me into play writing after working showcases for a year here in New York, a frustration with things not going my way, or is it a realization that I can't get by on the same skills I used in my twenties, or is it something deeper? It's a curious, and somewhat unrelenting, urge.
I needs me some puppets!
In the anarchic spirit of true artistry, I intend with this entry to break the mould of Odin's Aviary by discussing a topic seemingly unrelated to
The Third Life
(TM), though I'm likewise sure that I'll find a way to tie it in somehow. That topic is as follows:
Just who
would
win in a fight between Wolverine and Batman?
Now, everybody: Calm down. Calm right the hell on down. (Some of you may think I'm using an ironic tone at this moment, but nothing could be further from the truth; I have friends that will be offended that there is even a question about this match up--and for both sides, too.) We're going to look at this rationally, and I'm going to be as unbiased as possible. To that end, I must admit to those of you who don't yet know me (though I'm on the cover of this week's
. . . WATCH OUT!) that I am about as biased for Batman--in all things--as I could possibly be. Bearing that in mind, let's us begin our fair and balanced exploration of the question.
Batman would win.
Okay, I'm sorry. For
reals
now:
Batman would kick shorty's hairy butt.
No, no, really. Really. It's a tough call. (It
is
, Mark.) They're both the more popular bad boys of their respective universes--which is no doubt part of what inspired Amalgam to bring them together in their character,
. One could make a quick argument that Wolverine's enhancements make him the sure winner, but frankly, Batman has dealt with supernatural (
et
al
) powers before, and has a reputation for being the smarter fighter in any situation. But I get ahead of myself. Let's take a look at our fighters in some limited detail.
(Isn't it great to, every once in a while, be shameless in one's geek self? "
Geeking
out" is the popular term, but it can refer to any incidence in which someone unabashedly reveals their enthusiasm for anything. Why should it be such a social sin to relish anything in this world? Because not everyone will care? So what? You don't have to listen/read.)
Dealing with a brief outline of the conditions: Batman is a hero from the DC Comics universe, Wolverine from the Marvel. For the purposes of this discussion, we will be approaching the characters as being at the peak of their natural condition; that is to say,
Wolvie
with his standard set of attributes in the X-Men arc, Batman in his late-twenties/early-thirties...none of this sapped
adamantium
or Return of the Dark Knight stuff. (Non-
fanboys
: Anyone over
geeked
yet?) And they shall be comic characters, not movie characters. So
sayeth
I. And they shall be drawn according to their origins, with some allowance for increased anatomical awareness in artists of the latter half of the 20
th
century. So
Wolvie
is short, and Batman is not hulking. Finally, they're both to some degree anarchic good guys, with Wolverine taking the anarchy cake: He will kill; Bats will not.
Let's get it on!
Wolverine is a mutant who has been experimented upon (fact-check me here gang; I am not a Marvel dude). He has regenerative powers of shocking rapidity, but for the purposes of this discussion we're gonna go with the popular comic choice of him needing some time (one or two nights) to heal from something severe, like a dozen machine guns. He also has three foot-long claws that extend at will from his fists, which are made from
adamantium
, a purportedly indestructible metal. In fact, his entire skeleton is coated with a layer of the stuff, adding to his indestructibility and making him heavy as all hell. Now, the healing is a mutant power, and the
adamantium
is the result of a government experiment. The claws were long assumed to be part of the government's work, but a twist in the nineties suggested they were there before all that, made, at their core, of bone. Sadly, as a result of powerful amnesia,
Wolvie
barely knows a thing about his origins. Given his healing ability, it's possible he is really very old, but he maintains a loner attitude and an underdeveloped emotional capacity. He is trained in martial arts with a Japanese flavor, and prefers direct action to intricacy or planning.
Batman is just a dude--no superpowers. He has, however, spent every waking moment since he was six years old (or so) dedicating his life to studies both physical and mental that will help him fight crime in the urban sprawl of Gotham City, so often the argument is held that his single-minded determination is his "superpower." These studies include gymnastics, mixed martial arts, all sciences and technologies (with an emphasis on computers and
mechanistic devices
), detection, criminology and behavioral psychology. His mind and body are honed into excellence, and he's backed up in all of this by a huge estate and corporation left to him by his deceased parents. His
modus
operandi
is to research and investigate the hell out of everything ahead of time and be prepared, like an inky black boyscout. Owing to his background, he is incapable of accepting loss, either of people or in achievement.
Now (and I owe Friend Mark a nod for this): chances are it would all go down in Gotham. It's not hard to imagine these two egos clashing, but given that Wolverine generally wishes to best bad guys, it would take his stomping on Batman's grounds to make Bats take issue with him or his methods. So Gotham it is. And methods it is. Specifically,
Wolvie
would most likely only come to such a big city if he had to, presumably in pursuit of answers about his past or to hunt a baddie, and he wouldn't
announce
himself to the authorities. Now, it's hard to say what DC characters would feel about mutants. Batman would have no love lost over their DC equivalent--
metahumans
--but he's teamed with super types before, and some much fruitier than
Wolvie
. He is something of a control freak, though, and
Wolvie
would probably pretty quickly foul up some careful lead Bats was following. Bats would sneak up on him,
Wolvie
would smell him coming, Bats would warn,
Wolvie
would yawn him off, Bats would disappear suddenly and without a trace (because you can't smell them
going
). It's only on their next encounter they'd fight, probably with Bats tracking
Wolvie
, but
Wolvie
aware of it, and so he provokes him by threatening to shred a house of drug traffickers instead of arrest them.
And it's on.
My preference is to judge the winner by character examination. You can spend all day debating the merits of strategy, relative invulnerability and motorcycles versus
sports cars
, but at the end of the day, we're talking about events in a storytelling medium. If it isn't a good story, in this context, then it just isn't feasible (much less
desirable
). So we'll talk here about claws and cowls, but hopefully in how they serve an outcome, not their viability strictly as weapons.
(Brief irrelevant observation here: Why in the hell does Wolverine wear a mask? Bruce Wayne has to hide his identity to function in both worlds, but Logan has never shown any sign of needing to mask
himself
. Hell, he's on a continual quest for his identity! That's not the kind of guy who would dig getting his disguise on. Yeah, yeah; I know when he was created it was fashionable and they were trying to make him look more like his namesake. But come on.)
The fight would be all about control and, from this perspective, with Batman as the aggressor (trying to achieve control) and Wolverine as the defender (trying to escape control). This doesn't, however, mean that Bats gets to start the fight.
Wolvie
would probably startle him by drawing him in and then attacking suddenly. Bats would want to keep the high ground afforded him by his aerial equipment, but would just have to keep swinging lower to suppress
Wolvie
until it degraded into a street-level (or rooftop) brawl.
Surprises
would abound. Bats would have all kinds of interesting ways of evening the odds (in the eighties it would have
been a
neural suppressor to prevent the claws from engaging; in the sixties a giant bat-magnet), and
Wolvie
would shock Bats with moves so ugly they're almost absurd. Essentially, they're both incredibly experienced, intelligent fighters, once they get past the emotions. Along those lines, Bats would be doing everything he could to make Logan lose it whilst he maintained control of himself and the environment, and
Wolvie
would be doing whatever he could think of to cause Bats to falter from his grim determination.
Which is why, ultimately, Batman would win.
In every fight, Bats has some part of himself standing outside of the engagement, being the deductive reasoner, that part of him that he found years before, ready to carry him on past his parents' deaths. It's this part of him that inevitably carries the Rocky-
esque
twists of his fights: Just when he seems most lost, we discover that Bats was merely doing what he had to to manipulate the situation into his ultimate plan. He is ultimately objective, which is what makes him a hero, rather than a revenge-
obsessed
sociopath with a
Narcissus
complex.
Which is why, ultimately, Batman can't win.
In every fight, Wolverine's spirit is
indomitable
. It has to be--it's all he really has. Wolverine is actually a supremely vulnerable character. When he started out, this was manifested only by his impulsiveness and relative lack of strength compared to the other X-Men, rendering him more often as comic relief than as his current status of anti-hero. As writers developed his story, however, the vulnerability came out of this incredible amnesia and a conflict between who he seems to be and who he wants to be. For all his indestructible qualities, inside he's destroyed, and it's only his fighting spirit that he can rely on.
What we have here is a conflict between essential natures, and a stricture of conventional
comicbook
plots. The characters and their stories are serial, and keeping a balance between continuity and ingenuity is what marketing those comics is all about. That's part of what makes
comicbook
characters such contemporary icons: like the gods and heroes of myth, they are defined by specific characteristics that remain essentially the same. So we can have several Robins, and Batman can get his will broken by Bane, but only if it eventually returns him to his essential character with renewed vigor. This is great for hero worship and power fantasies. This sucks for narrative, because what's really interesting about a story is how people change as a result of it.
So I propose that the fight would end with Bats getting control of the
Wolvie
, and having his say about his jurisdiction and
Wolvie's
methods.
Wolvie
might even find his arguments compelling enough to stop threatening him for a moment. But
Wolvie
will not change his ways, and Bats will be forced to
expel
him from Gotham, like an animal released into the wild. Another little tussle, in which
Wolvie
gets a claw swipe at the utility belt, to no apparent harm, and Bats will have him ready for transport. The much-battered Batman will escort a bound Logan across whatever harbor borders Gotham, and Logan will light a
stoagie
, turn wryly back and say over his shoulder as all his bruises fade, "Been a while since I've had a beating, but I've had worse. Bit of advice: Remember that I owe you one, bub." And with that cryptic line, Wolverine leaves the scene.
In a brief coda, Bats goes back to the scene of their first meeting to scavenge clues that may not have been obliterated by
Wolvie
. In departing there, he uses his fly line to span an alleyway, to discover
mid-flight
that it is nicked. The line snaps, sending him crashing to a fire escape. "I suppose now we're even..." he says as he rather gingerly descends the escape.
Thoughts? Comments? Complete disagreement?
You know, friends can't always make it out to your show. Especially when you're not native to the city, and you do a lot of shows out of town, friends both old and new often have a great deal of trouble getting to where you're doing your work. Add to that the indelible irony of being a theatre artists--that is, most of the people you've met in your adult life are the same, and involved in their own shows you never have time to see--and it's frankly a miracle when someone you know, love and respect ends up in an audience. I think I'm fairly understanding as regards this. I'm especially touched, however, by how many of my friends emailed me this weekend to ask me how our opening on Saturday went.
It went well, y'all. Really very well.
I've not felt stage fright like I did Saturday since the opening of
. With all that has changed, gone wrong and been invested in
, I was just a wreck starting around 1:30 and extending well past the hour of our start, 9:00 pm. It was a fair consensus that all were feeling mildly-to-greatly throwy-uppy just prior to curtain. We began our day with a blessed extra hour in the space from 10:00 to 11:00 am, in which time the actors ran all the transitions whilst the tech just tried to get more proverbial ducks in the proverbial row before that evening's great experiment. Thereafter we adjourned to a nearby playground to do a speed-through of the lines, and the tech side alighted into a colorful plastic-and-metal tower for notes. It was a gorgeous day, and we felt relaxed.
As I went my separate way afterward, however, already I began the micro-management (in essence, a failure to manage) that is symptomatic of an opening day for me. I got my hair trimmed again, which was good, but spent an hour deliberating on
. I got some film developed, which was also good, but walked twenty blocks to a place that closed over a year ago before finding a Walgreen's that still does hour development. Then, at approximately 2:00, I stalled out. I needed lunch, but didn't feel hungry, and worried about eating before the show, even though it was still seven hours hence. I had thought to go home and do little homey things, but my film would be ready at 5:00, and I didn't want to come all the way up to 23rd before the show, and there was a 3:00 showing of
nearby and I could eat fast but I probably needed a nap at some point and and and--
Sense prevailed. After
, I made it home and promptly fell asleep for an hour, got up and and did laundry, organized photo albums and even got to Walgreen's again before arriving for the show call. We got in a little earlier than our 30 minutes, and by the time I was there the projection drop was already up and I was put on taping down light cords. In between tech tasks, actors hurriedly checked and double-checked their props and costumes, frantically noting little differences in the space even since the morning (Who the f%$k put those ground instruments there?!). My big panic was being unable to find the t-shirt my character wears throughout, something I hadn't seen for days anyway and had been niggling at the back of my mind all day. It ended up being within the army bag--another actor's prop--and I found it way too soon. I could have used the further distraction to keep me from madly pacing backstage as the audience filed noisily in.
We had a good, big crowd, with only three out of 74 seats unclaimed. The show begins with my character's mother (that night being played by a substitute actress [a one-night-stand for her; we rehearse the actor who will be in for the remainder of the run tonight] with script in hand) entering with a box, humming to herself. Then triumphant music begins, cuing us all to enter simultaneously and enthusiastically draw yellow ribbon from the box. It's a great way to begin for me--an anonymous, high-energy entrance that introduces actors to audience without any of the stress of an opening scene. It quickly transitions into the sequence in which I do a number of push-ups (usually 24-30, by the by), and they are the easiest of my life. Nothing like show adrenaline to amp up a workout.
In point of fact, there's not enough for me to do in this show. I mean, my part is well-balanced, I think. As one of the "creactors" of this piece, I wouldn't want him to have more exposure than he already has, particularly as the show approaches its denouement. What I mean to say is that I am accustomed to sweating my way through a show, working hard and throughout, and this show in particular raises a lot of driving emotions in me that desire venting. It was not meant to be, however, so I become melancholic backstage and after the show, funneling excess emotional energy into push-ups between scenes. It's a strange state for me, and I'm curious to see if it continues into our final (read: fifth) showing.
Our first
did
go well, to stumble awkwardly back on track. There were surprisingly few gaffes given our collective circumstances, and them what happened were more than manageable. The biggest that I noticed was my first scene being cut a few lines shy of the end by a sound cue. Suspended in a freeze, I wondered if we would go back to get those lines and fudge the transition into my monologue--a horrible prospect. Fortunately we managed to segue somewhat smoothly into the "capture video," and I felt properly shaken up for it. From my end, the only other gaffe was that yes, indeed, I did almost trip backwards over a bench. I swear that little bastard hadn't been there in rehearsal. Ah well: something to keep me vigilant in my performance.
It's odd to have such widely spread performances. Even given the pick-up rehearsals today and tomorrow to work in the new actor, it feels like a strange interlude. Our next show is Tuesday at 7:00. We have sparse reservations, but it seems there was a reviewer in the crowd Saturday (blessing or curse?), and Joe Varca got a
made and up on the website, so we'll see how we do. Maybe a few unexpected friends will make it. Who knows? Regardless, I'll be thinking of them as I resist the urge to vomit profusely.
In college, I read Stanislavski. For those of us who slept through (or never even considered taking) Theatre History 101,
Konstantin Sergeyevich Stanislavski
was an actor, director and teacher in 19th century Russia who made a big impact on the acting world by recording his process and "method" in a series of books, amongst various other associations and theatrical victories. To put the tale overly simply, he grew up in an aesthetic that instructed acting by way of imitation, but he came to value an approach of creating a character "from the inside out," meaning to find an association or familiarity with a character within one's own emotional landscape before mucking about with the specifics of gesture and voice. This was revolutionary, and we've been rather obsessed with it ever since (even though Stan went on to study truth through physical gesture as well). I laughed out loud (and I'm still trying to figure out if that was the desired effect) at one point in his book
. He's telling the story of trying to get a handle on playing Othello, when he sees a chocolate cake on a table. He impulsively plunges his face into the frosting, and returns to his mirror to continue working on whatever monologue had his attention at that time. When I was 19 or so, I thought this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever read about acting.
This morning, while waiting to cross a street, I noticed a puddle full of oil, or gasoline, and barely thinking about it stepped
into
the puddle to stand and wait for the light to change. You see, for the past few days I have been wearing the sneakers my character wears in the show. They're white, and need to look like they're well used in fields and garages, my character being a soldier and a mechanic. So, for the past few days, I have been reprogramming my instinct (hopefully only temporarily) to step IN every nasty spot in the park and city that I can find. Waiting to cross the street I spotted the rainbow sworls below and thought (Tin-Man like) as I stepped, "Oil!" It's rather ridiculous what a sense of victory I experienced from this.
Yesterday one of the actors in
As Far As We Know
quit. Actually, that's only true insofar as I've heard it. I was not there (it happened in a morning phone call between the actor and the director) and have only heard the details third-hand, so to the actor it may have seemed more like a firing, or at least an inevitability. We open tomorrow.
This generally doesn't happen. The night before it happened, as a way of pardoning all the up-to-the-curtain changes a group-developed work may involve, Laurie told a story of making
, in which the playwright came into the last rehearsal and told the only actor in the show, in sum of substance: "I have good news and bad. The good is I've solved the ending. The bad is that it means you have to come up with 13 new, distinctively different characterizations." And when I developed the first show of
,
, we spent nine months building a story, and ended up scrapping it entirely and starting fresh during tech week. So I am accustomed to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune where the theatre is concerned.
This particular plot twist, however, is surprising in a number of ways. First and foremost, actors don't quit a show two days before it opens. They occasionally get fired in such a time, but they don't quit. I've been trying to imagine circumstances under which I would do such a thing, and there are a few, none of which could apply here. So it is flummoxing. Secondly, and most baffling, most of us have been working on this show--off and on--for over two years. This is what's kept me in the game during those times when I began to question my own resolve to see it through. How could I leave off before we saw some kind of semi-glossed presentation? I don't think any one of us can claim
not
to have been profoundly affected by this work at some point. And maybe that's it. Maybe the actor just couldn't agree with the show we ended up making, or something. It's pointless for me to speculate in this.
You know that inevitable scene in the Rocky movies in which the match is not going well, and the chips are down, and Rocky's looking like he's going to vomit and fall in it any moment now, and we're all just waiting for him to rear up and triumph against all odds? Pepper that feeling with--to borrow a term--a little shock and awe, and you'll have the mood of rehearsal last night. We already had a new actor in, and they were doing their very best to catch up. The adrenaline of it all helped to wash away some of the sense of loss and incompleteness, but every so often you'd catch a fellow actor's eye and see it all in there. In the final stages of creating a play about a family's inexplicable loss of one of its own, we lost, rather inexplicably (to the cast, anyway), a member of our family. I really, really miss this actor. It sucks.
But...Rocky's going to get up off the floor. We will take arms against a sea of troubles. The show will go on. That's what we do. It may not be perfect, it may not even be pretty, but it will be, and we will have made it. Come to think of it, many people have contributed to what we've made who are not here now. From actors to writers to actual participants in the events that are the source of our inspiration, there are all kinds of missing people, and part of what we're learning through this is how we live through that. One thing I've learned is to find small joys during it all, to be sure not to miss them when they cross your path. That, and a little faith doesn't hurt, either.